


The Light at the End of the Tunnel

by MonEspritLibre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: Gen, Jashinism, Master of Death (Harry Potter), Master of Death Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23568061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonEspritLibre/pseuds/MonEspritLibre
Summary: For how many millennia had he wandered? He could no longer recall. He traveled the universes, in search of others like himself, but had found none. As he traveled, there was a small tug at the back of his being. He gave into it immediately, finding comfort in physical sensation. He had been summoned.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 370





	The Light at the End of the Tunnel

**Author's Note:**

> This really sucks but I’m posting it anyway because I think there might be at least one person out there who would like to read it (+ I already wrote it). Constructive criticism is welcome because yeah it's pretty awful lol.

He wondered how many millennia ago it was that he accidentally became an immortal. It was easy to lose track of time now, without any sort of reference. A simple  _ tempus _ seemed to believe it had been at least 5000, although Earth years mattered little now considering the planet was now a wasteland. He had abandoned it long ago, when it had begun to threaten his existence with widely implemented surveillance and facial recognition. Although a simple glamour would do the trick, he tired of running—always, always running, ever since Voldemort had taken over Hogwarts... It never ended. 

So he left, evaporating into the shadows and watching the years pass by from above. Or below, or from the side. He soon grew tired of this too, however. He had thought he had made the world a better place when he was in his teens. And he had. But it didn’t last. At first he was frustrated with humanity—why did they like to torture him so, making him think something good might happen? Then he grew apathetic. Then once again, he left, off to a new planet with new beings. He found himself in a series of interconnected galaxies, where both hyper-advanced and primitive societies lived together. There was prejudice, as mortals were wont to do, but it fell short of the same dictatorship that had befallen his home planet. 

He watched these planets for a while, then stopped as he lost interest. He searched and searched before observing and learning, then as he grew uncaring once more he decided to move on. Nothing held his interest. He was tired. He pondered his existence, not for the first time, but for a long time. He reached no conclusion. There was nothing to guide him, nothing to make him care. He grew detached from this universe. Dumbledore had told him once that the true Master of Death was one who was unafraid of it. He was still unafraid, just as much as he had always been. But now he would’ve welcomed it if he could, as opposed to simply not fearing it. He thought often of the Death who appeared in the Tale of the Three Brothers. It was not real, and he was alone.

He decided to change universes. This one bored him. He hoped that another universe might have more immortals. He was wrong—although there were “gods,” so to speak, they were frivolous little things. Their society was full of bickering and anger, grudges held onto for centuries and beyond. He knew—he watched as they unfolded, as their society collapsed and they went into their respective corners of the universe. He watched as some plotted for destruction, some plotted for revenge, and others yet took their newfound free time to ponder reality and spend time with their spouses. Once again, he grew bored. These immortals were worse company than no company, and their constant aggravation at even the smallest of slights was irritating at best. He moved on.

He repeated this process countless times, never satisfied with what he saw. Each and every time, he knew the eventual fate of these universes. He supposed Earth had been right. The universe tends towards entropy. Peace was never an option. He grew tired of searching. Was violence such a bad thing? He had given his life, his mortality, in exchange for what he believed would be an end to a war. But the war had continued—the Muggles had learned of magic, and his kin were all slaughtered like livestock. He remembered learning about the Salem Witch Trials from his history professor. He wished he could go back to those days. Now, all that remained of what used to be a planet teeming with magic was a few restless souls interspersed among a cold society. He had tried to help, at first, but it was evident that this fate was inevitable. Prophecies always came true, after all, regardless of how much one struggled against it.

No, perhaps violence wasn’t so bad. It was inevitable. The souls who departed the mortal realm lived on in the Veil. Only those who had their souls stripped from them— _ like his parents _ , he tried to forget—were truly gone from existence. The souls there were happier than those that were still living. They often chose to forget how they died, to make peace with their abrupt ends. They lived together with the people they cared about, and relaxed for eternity. How he wished he could join them. But the Veil was beyond his reach now. His friends would never see him. He was sure they’d figure out why. Hermione would never stop researching why until she found out the reason. He mourned for them, for the losses they had all suffered while alive and how he was unable to join them in death. He hoped they didn’t blame him.

It took him a long time before he was willing to accept that he no longer cared about the mortals. They had it easy. They would always find peace in the end. He envied them. He questioned his purpose of existence. The universes had done fine without a Master of Death. Why should they need one now? He wished he could disappear. He hopped more universes.

It was right before he left yet another doomed universe that he felt a tug in the back of his head. He hadn’t truly felt in thousands of years. He gave into it immediately, as if it were a comforting friend. Evidently, the people of this universe had the ability to summon him—he who walks in death, in shadows, and in fear. A mortal man requested his aid in exchange for his soul. He honored the man’s request, separating his soul from his body and transporting it to the Veil. He would be free now, and any qualms from during his own lifetime could be amended soon enough. He saw no issue in ending the man’s life. Death would come for all, eventually. It made no difference as to when. All anger could be soothed. All regret could be healed. All sadness could be mended. He wished he could feel those things, so as to fix them. It had been too long.

He decided to stick around for a while. If one mortal could summon him, perhaps another could as well. He waited a while, and it came. A tug. He gave in. This time was weirder; he had no visible form, and so he hung in the shadows of the room, listening to his summoner. He flickered around restlessly as the feeling of souls departing from this plane lingered in the room.

“Jashin-sama, please accept this small offering from your humble servant,” the man in the room whispered, on his knees and praying. A dead woman laid in front of him, lacerated all over. She would likely choose to forget her death. The shadows flickered some more as he felt her soul finally leave her body. He wrapped around her form, enveloping her in shadow before engulfing her whole. An offering using a symbol similar to the Deathly Hallows, minus the wand he had snapped. It was clearly his to take, and so he did. The man in the room shivered at the power he had called forth. There was little he could do with a body, however, and so he disappeared until another day.

It became clear incredibly quickly that the man who had summoned him had no intention of stopping. He didn’t mind. The break from the monotony of scouring for a more hospitable universe was welcome. At the very least, he had yet to grow apathetic towards the summoning. The tug he felt on his body—he wondered what emotion it most closely resembled. He had forgotten what it was like to feel, and so he could not recall. Perhaps it was excitement. He wasn’t sure, but he welcomed it. 

His summoner did not cease in his repeated callings, always to the same room for the same purpose. He devoured the bodies hungrily. He wasn’t sure of the purpose in doing so, but it felt like the correct thing to do. It took only a small while for him to notice the newfound strength he carried in his form, whether corporeal or not. He felt less wispy than before, less withered away. Less dead, although he had never truly died. He continued to absorb the corpses. His summoner’s offerings grew more frequent, but also soon tapered off. He grew curious, and delved into the shadows. His summoner was fleeing, it seemed, from those who wished to put an end to his offerings. He reached to lick at his summoner’s sandals. The man noticed, and immediately began to fight back like his existence depended on it. He drew the Deathly Hallows symbol on the ground using the blood of one of his enemies. He prayed as he fought, without real form or cadence. The tug was back. So the shadows reached up and absorbed whatever he killed.

By the end of it, his summoner was exhausted, and badly wounded. He stayed in the shadows, observing. His summoner could no longer move his arm. It was half sliced off. The man’s legs gave out from under him, and he collapsed, breathing heavily into the dirt. “J-Jashin-sama,” the man got out between labored breaths, struggling to crawl back to the blood circle. “Please accept this...small offering...from your h-humble, servant...” 

The shadows flickered, and reached up to envelop his summoner’s body. He saw his summoner close his eyes and accept death. He refused. He had felt more alive when being summoned than he had since he died. He would miss this if it ended so soon. He patched his summoner’s wounds, sewing together his flesh with tendrils of darkness. But they would not hold. He took some of the power he felt from the bodies he absorbed, and let it power his efforts. His summoner’s wounds stayed closed. He let the shadows recede, and watched. 

His summoner awoke, and immediately prayed. He hadn’t died. The man was likely grateful for that fact, but in the end it was of no real consequence. He had simply done it to satisfy his own whims. Had his summoner died, he would have found peace; if anything, he was being tortured to be kept alive here. He decided to watch over his summoner a bit more from where he was.

However, he hadn’t realized how much he actually tortured the man until the next time he was injured. A clean slash across his chest, blood spurting forth. The flesh sewed itself back together immediately. Another slash, this time straight through the heart. This should have been the end of his silly attachment to a mortal; instead, his summoner lived, and he understood what he had done. He continued to watch. He had made a mistake, but his summoner was pleased. He would not approach. He would not ruin what little enjoyment the man got out of his life among mortals. When the time came, he would separate his summoner’s soul from his body and send it to the Veil. As recompense, he would stay close until that time came. He did not wish to force his summoner to stay alive for a moment more than he desired. 

The constant influx of bodies allowed him to grow his power. Whatever energy these bodies held, he could absorb it. It felt tingly and pleasant. He liked the sensation, and deeply desired more. He let the shadows follow his summoner closely, nipping at the man’s heels as he hungered. His summoner always took the hint. He felt, dare he say it, a bit lucky.

He watched as his summoner fought a man who could manipulate his own shadow. It messed with his summoner’s head; the man soon found himself soon trapped and buried deep underground. But he had resolved not to intervene. He would send his summoner into the Veil when his summoner so wished it, and not a second sooner. He heard the man’s prayers, jumbled and confused as his own head struggled to work together with the distance between its different parts. He felt his summoner’s anger, later turned into regret and sorrow. But never a desire to die. He waited there, in the shadows, as the trees’ leaves turned orange and his summoner continued to prayer confusing prayers. Finally, a feeling of hopelessness. His summoner feared death, he realized. He thought it foolish at first, but his summoner continued his nonstop prayers. He feared being stuck in this dirt for eternity, never able to escape. He feared never being able to die like this, and he feared for what would happen if he did just die. Mostly, however, he feared no longer being able to devote himself to the god who had saved him. 

He had never thought of himself as someone who brought salvation. As far as he was aware, his influence only brought inevitable death, and nothing more. He grew the shadows, letting them bury deep underground. He pulled and pulled, and soon began unearthing his summoner. His summoner was deep in prayer, his brain a fractured mess, and was oblivious. He felt slight amusement for the first time in...however long, and began sewing his summoner back together. He found the last few pieces of brain last, and pieced them together. His summoner opened his eyes, dazed, as the shadows began to recede. The man immediately fell to the ground, both out of weakness and reverence. He praised his god, never getting off his knees. He clutched the pendant he wore, repaired by the darkness which surrounded him. He thought himself rewarded for his loyalty. But in truth, it just felt rather cold without the tug.

His summoner left, but was unable to get far before collapsing. He saw his summoner’s enemies realize he was gone, as well as the direction in which he had went. As they gave chase, he pulled his summoner into his shadows’ embrace. His summoner slept, unnoticed by his pursuers. His shadows disappeared as they were no longer needed, and his summoner awoke. The man prayed and prayed when he realized his newfound invigoration, and despite the fog in his brain immediately set out to find an offering. An old woman, out here by herself, served as the next body he devoured. He saw his summoner nearly weep as his shadows ate the woman’s corpse. His summoner hid away in a small cave, planning his escape from the country he was stuck in. The shadows comforted him as he slept.

While leaving, he was pursued. But he was no longer vulnerable; he was vengeful for time poorly wasted, and offered as many bodies as he could. Each one the shadows inhaled with ease, and with each one, he felt himself recover just a little bit of what made him human. He saw as with each fight his summoner bit off more and more that he couldn’t chew, and soon the entire village he had just left was surrounding him. He was cursing himself for his stupidity, his lack of judgment, his wasting of the gifts his god had given him. He had been awarded a second chance, and here he was, about to die a second time. His summoner doubted he would be saved again. 

As his enemies closed in, his summoner put up the best fight that he could. His enemies were wrought with grief after a few of their own went down, but soon he was once again outwitted. Strategy had never been his summoner’s strong suit. But he grew tired of this. The tug was enticing. With each body, he felt himself grow stronger. Less apathetic. Less (or more?) human. He was impatient. He would not wait for another mortal to finish the job. So when his summoner was backed into a corner, about to be caught and have his body more properly dealt with this time, he let his shadows rear up and absorb the attack. His summoner’s breath hitched as he shed tears, laughing at his enemies for their failure to believe in the only real god. He supposed by some definitions, his summoner was not wrong. 

His summoner kept up the attack, slaughtering whoever he could. Still, he was outmatched, and when the next dangerous attack threatened his summoner’s well-being, he used the shadows to completely engulf the man, swallowing him whole. He was then unceremoniously spit out back in the room where he had first performed the summoning. His summoner laughed a bit, then maniacally, seemingly unable to cope with the situation. He asked his god, “Jashin-sama, is this real? Or have I finally gone insane from being stuck in the ground?”

He had his shadows travel near the man’s feet in a gesture of comfort. His summoner laughed again, before stabbing himself suddenly. He pulled out the weapon he had stolen from his enemy, bleeding for a bit before his skin repaired itself. “I guess I am awake.” His summoner sat on the floor of the room encrusted with blood stains. He seemed to be thinking of something—reflecting, perhaps. He left his summoner to his pondering.

It was not much longer before the offerings resumed. He felt his emotions slowly returning, as if they had simply been away for a while. He had missed this feeling, which he had lost over the centuries. It had been easier to go without feeling to protect himself from the stagnation which he had felt. Only, then his entire journey had seemed purposeless. Even now, he questioned his place here in this universe. Was he a god that was prayed to? Was he a being meant to be summoned for the sake of exchanges? If he hadn’t been here, who would have answered his summoner’s prayers? He doubted there was someone else who could be evoked using the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, especially one which had been modified to reflect how he no longer owned the Wand. He wondered how this universe had come across this symbol. To have the ability to summon a being which does not even exist within your own universe...he felt uncertain at the idea. Surely there was an explanation, but what it was, he did not know.

Out of a mild sense of curiosity, he decided to ask his summoner. He hoped he did not regret showing himself, but then again, he could always leave. It was only a long lost sense of morality that was keeping him here, not wanting to leave his summoner to an eternity of solitude. He felt somewhat amused at that fact—his summoner had managed to keep him here through his offerings, returning his own emotions to himself quickly enough that when the man became an immortal he had felt slightly guilty. And so he had stayed, caring about a man who didn’t even know him. When his summoner performed the ritual again, at the circle he had used for years, he consumed the body, and took its place on top of the ritual circle. His summoner, deep in prayer and on his knees, did not notice; and so he waited, patiently, for he had an eternity in front of him.

His summoner finished his prayer and opened his eyes, at first seeing only his feet. His summoner’s eyes widened, and he scanned upwards. The two made eye contact, but neither one moved. He tilted his head, wondering if his summoner would say something. It had been a long time since he had spoken, and words did not wish to form on his tongue. His summoner seemed to have realized his mistake, and immediately bowed his head, daring not to look at him again. “Did...were my prayers heard...Jashin-sama?” the man asked, disbelief and reverence mixing into his voice. “I have failed You over and over...and yet You continue to help me, to save me from my own incompetence…and now You appear before me, like I did nothing wrong.”

His mouth felt heavy, but he tried to string together his words. “You did nothing wrong,” he said. “I am the one who made you immortal. It was my mistake.”

He saw his summoner shake and then still, keeping his head down. His summoner did not reply. 

“How did you know of the symbol to call me?” he asked, crouching down. “I was unaware I could even be summoned.”

He saw his summoner bite his lip briefly, then answer. “I apologize,” the man said, fighting to keep the shakiness out of his words. “I would have stopped, had I known it displeased You.”

“No,” he said, “it’s fine. It has been a long time since I have felt this alive.”

His summoner dared to sneak a glance at him, still not making eye contact. He reached out and held the man’s chin, pushing it up. His summoner seemed shocked, and was unable to avoid meeting his eyes with the gesture. 

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“H-Hidan,” his summoner said. “My name is Hidan.”

He smiled a wistful smile. “Long ago, I had a name, too,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll learn it one day.”

His summoner nodded, or at least, as well as he could with his chin being propped up. 

“When I healed your wounds that night, I accidentally made you immortal,” he said. He could tell he had his summoner’s undivided attention. “It was not intentional. The strength I have been receiving from your offerings—I was capable of more than I remembered. And I felt guilt, in the recesses of my soul, for I had cursed you with the same burden that I have borne for millennia.” He looked at his summoner’s torso, covered in blood but with no wound in sight. “So I decided to wait, until you too became tired with this eternity, so that I might guide your soul to the Veil.”

His summoner, if he was confused, made no indication of such. So he continued. “And yet, in that hole with your body scattered about, you spent the whole time praying, hoping that I could forgive you even while you realized you would likely die there. And the guilt I felt increased.” He looked at his summoner with a tinge of fondness. “I had forgotten what it was like to feel—the negative emotions and the positive emotions both. But if you died, then who would summon me? Who would let me regain what little humanity I once had? I am impatient. I will not waste away here for another thousand years, waiting for another summoner to sacrifice for me. So I ask, where did you find this symbol?”

His summoner began to look down again, and so he pulled his chin back up a bit. He could see the fear in his eyes and his face. His summoner was probably terrified of having wrong him—having let down the one he had propped up as a savior. He had maybe been a savior in a different lifetime, but now he was simply alone.

“It...was in a dream,” his summoner said seriously. The man was not lying, at least, not as far as he knew. So he nodded. If he had a spiritual link to Voldemort in his own youth, then who was to say how and where such bonds could be established? How funny. 

“I will be around,” he promised. “Ask for me when you grow tired of living.” Then, he vanished, the shadows sucking him under. And, when the time came, he fulfilled his promise; he visited his summoner, and let his weary soul depart towards the Veil. His summoner had felt a great guilt, for he had assumed in his youth that he would desire to serve his god forever. He assured his summoner it was alright, and that he would find peace in the afterlife, as all had before him. He waited around for another few hundred years, but no one else called for him. It was time to move on, and so, he continued hopping through the universes, searching for another that he had some sort of purpose in. If it happened once, it would happen again. Living this long had shown him that. As the time passed, his emotions began to fade again. The melancholy of his loneliness, the monotony of his days—these became normal, and soon, he forgot how to feel again. He kept switching universes, searching for the day when someone else summoned him to remind him of how it felt when he was still human.


End file.
